film:"My mother was the kind of mother who always said she was her daughter's best friend. Whenever she did, I thought, 'Great, not only do I have a shitty mother, but my best friend's a loser bitch.'"-Dedee, The Opposite of Sex

"Here I was born, and there I died. It was only a moment for you; you took no notice."
-Madeleine, Vertigo

"Goo is what tape is all about. Goo is what makes it tape. Without goo, it would just be paper."
-Jackie-O, The House of Yes

"No cat out of its first fur was ever deceived by appearances, unlike human beings, who seem to enjoy it."
-The Cat, The Last Unicorn

soundtrack:
"am i real and what do i feel
hate is half a heart
only i am in my arms

you were sold as something to hold
nothing's as rude as the cold
stupidly beautifoolish true you
maybe madness is a heart
maybe heaven is a habit

if i could fly i'd live in the sky
i'd come from why and obviously you do too
the very start of everything hard could be the slip of a fingertip"
-Frente, "Lonely"

david lynch:
FRANK'S GAS MASK - WHICH OF COURSE I USE EACH WEEKEND
-David Lynch, when asked if he'd snagged any props from his films; www.davidlynch.com

leaves:It was an idyllic kind of setting and a very unlikely place to be put aside for an orgy. But it was, and the outlaws set about occupying it like a victorious army.
-Hunter S. Thompson, Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga

"A sweaty salute to aging. In a wee four months, I will be leaving the devil-may-care twenties behind for the bittersweet cardigan and minivan years known as the thirty-somethings. I am not ready. I am not fucking ready! Stay gold, Pony Boy. Gone are the days of scorpion bowl binge drinking and whoopie pie munchies. Good times. Ethel? Pass me the jar of Revitalift when you're done with it. Im telling a story over here. Earl gray, no milk. Lactose, you know."
-rebecca, sweat flavored gummi

the rabbit:
"(2)paces in circles around apartment, wondering whether to a) make inspiring but melancholy mix CD, b) walk to 7-11 for nachos and cola squishy, c) write 10 more pages of novel without consulting now-oppressive and illegible outline thingy, or d) sit in place on couch, daydreaming about Britney Spears's torso until weak with hunger, necessitating crawling on hands and knees to fridge, where sliced jarlsberg and sweet pickles wait in joyful hope for the coming of their savior."
-rabbit, on her own kind of OCD, the rabbit blog

Wednesday, May 15, 2002
04:03 p.m.
A white butterfly, its wings' edges dipped in black, flew onto the branch of the hedge, just near my feet. It stayed there, perfectly poised, for almost a half a minute before I frightened it away, driven by the desire to capture it on camera.

Sweet shit, how I loathe that question. No one is immune. Everyone wants to know, but nobody gets a very good answer. So I thought I'd really think it through just so I can forget the whatever-makes-me-happy, shoe-shuffle routine.

First and foremost, I'm going to keep on keeping on. I'm going to get up in the morning, same as the last, and breathe in and out incessantly, and grow hungry and tired and old.

To ask the question "What are you going to do now?", one must determine what is meant by "now." I mean, right this very instant I am outside on a blanket, sipping the sun and listening to the squawking trio of birds overhead and I'm writing. So I suppose what I am going to do now (which, evidentally, means in the near future) is what I am already doing now. Writing.

A more direct answer to the insufferable question is that I'll be continuing my work as a bartender/waitress since it seems to be the only gig presently paying the bills, while part-timing at NIFF five days a week until the end of June. All the while looking for a paid position as a writer.

I've got lofty aspirations, but I am strictly aware of the difficulty in this. If I had clearer direction, or more clips, or more drive, perhaps I'd be more smoothly on my way. But I haven't got any of those things, so I'll be taking what I can get, where ever I can get it.

As the wanderer-type, I only recently committed to my heart's desire of writing as a career choice. I've sought the advice of one man I admire, whose words have been a helpful tool in my search for a path. Now, I'd like to solicit more. Those readers who consider themselves writers, professional or otherwise, send me advice, words of wisdom or caveats. Or recommend reading you feel would be valuable--fiction or non-fiction.

post-party postMonday, May 13, 2002
10:49 p.m.
Just got in from the NIFF Sneak-Preview party at The Bound'ry. My job tonight consisted of signing up new Indie Club members and checking in the old ones. And I drank lots of huge glasses of red wine.

I met lots of new, creative, intellectual-type people, to whom I'm sure I seemed ditsy. I tried to schmooze, and make witty interjections in the most apporpriate places, but I think I merely succeeded in not ending up on the floor or with fondue on my blouse.

However, things started looking up when the Executive Festival Director introduced me as "our best intern." Little did everyone know I'm one of two.

and when I land will my eyes be closed or open?Thursday, May 9, 2002
02:58 p.m.
I grew up in Ashland City, Tennessee, a smudge on a map that sits just 30 miles outside Nashville. Despite its close proximity to the Music City, most people assume Ashland City is near Memphis or in the Appalachia. Those who do know where it is probably never visited, or if they did so came to fish or they were lost. The population was just under 1,300 then, in the early 90s, one hundred or so less than those enrolled at the central county high school.

Aside from football games, field parties and barnyard smoke-outs, the town was absolutely devoid of culture or entertainment--like so many of its sister cities.

Kids in Ashland City kept busy like other kids elsewhere kept busy, except we had a rock quarry. Actually, it wasn't ours at all, it was privately owned. And while everyone was in constant fear of being found out, it was obvious the land owners merely turned a blind eye to the throngs of kids carrying sweaty cans of Bud in dusty sandals and little else.

The quarry was enormous, filled with sparkling, clear blue water that was deeper than most cared to guess. No one had ever touched the bottom, though how many ventured to discover how deep it all went is questionable. The place was picturesque--a rare beauty, and the best way to experience it was from below in the vast, cold water. There was even a wooden raft, shoddy, but tied to a post alongside the only point where the water could be entered without jumping. However, reaching the docking place was an exercise in bravery since anyone looking not to jump had to scale down a sloping cliff.

Most, wisely, chose to jump into the quarry from above--how far above was the subsequent decision. The lowest rock from which to jump was 30 feet--no meager leap for a wimpy girl-type. I successfully completed this jump numerous times with nearly no real issue. There was also a 60-foot high rock which most everyone dared fall from. After watching every, single one of my Latin Club girlfriends fling themselves without caution into the pool below, I gathered up all my confidence. As my turn approached my pulse quickened and my mouth grew sandy dry. As each body before me disappeared below the jutting mass of stone, my pupils must have also increased their diameter.

My turn came and I was paralyzed. Two guys swam in place in the waters under me, so far away I could barely see it, shouting up instructions.

"Point your toes and don't hold out your arms--you'll bruise them!"

"Try to enter the water like a spike, if you flatten out you'll be fucked!"

"Take a huge, running leap so you avoid these sharp ass rocks!"

While they were trying to educate and instruct, this was not what I wanted to hear with my toes hanging over the side of a 60-foot drop. I tried to move. I struggled to merely step backward but couldn't. I wanted to jump, but I failed.

The boys grew tired of treading water and soon the others were resigned to the fact I wasn't going. Irritated friends told me how to climb down and helped me off the rock platform. Shaking uncontrollably and defeated I stumbled, slid and scraped my way down the side of that cliff with 20 of my closest friends watching from the banks. My face was flush red from the sun and the tears and the humiliation, a shade rivaled only by that of the crimson rivulets that ran down my arms and shins from the torturous climb down.

Surely today, ten years later, in the cool spring heat, before it grows sticky and sweltering, there are kids hurling themselves from the walls of the quarry into her watery bottom. Perhaps a few of them brave the Black Rock, a legendary 90-foot plateau only the daring or the drunk ever attempt.
I, though, never, ever went back.

Should I dial it?Wednesday, May 8, 2002
03:20 p.m.
I've got boxes of miscellaneous items from high school and college that await their unloading, organization and colonization into my place here and now. But every item has such a history that the boxes remain still full, as of yet unexplored. Mostly there are books, of the empty variety, that are half-filled with song lyrics, random directions, horrible poetry, shockingly naked confessions, free-hand sketches of eyeballs and various stains.

The book I pulled out today is an 80-sheet, college-ruled, bound notebook, red and small in size, and filled with the items listed above. However, on the very back cover, alone, is a long distance telephone number scrawled hurriedly in pencil. Next to it I've written: confession line.

May DayWednesday, May 1, 2002
11:21 a.m.
It's May Day at ModestNeeds.org. Keith is asking those so inclined to donate $1.50 one time, and one time only, to his organization in hopes of raising enough money for a significant endowment.

Or best offerTuesday, April 30, 2002
01:26 p.m.
While driving, I passed a large maroon van with the words "For Sale," a phone number and a suggested asking price spraypainted on the side of said van in black.

He is l33t.Monday, April 29, 2002
10:23 p.m.
Someone I know is probably doing a silly little happy dance to see that this exists. That is, if he's quit cappin' ass long enough to notice.viaThe Bryan Experiment

...and the prize will be good--just you wait and seeMonday, April 29, 2002
01:37 p.m.
I gave Mattress the go-ahead to begin building a new site for me. My only instructions: None of that boyish, slick, urban design with sharp angles and shit. Stick with rounder, organic shapes. Preferrably HTML only (Flash and Macromedia cause problems I'm not equipped to fix). I like yellow and green a lot, though not together so much.

The redesign is underway and I'm flushed with anticipation. It make take some time, however, because even though Mattress says he won't take payment, I'm going to give him a small settlement--to make it worth his while. But since he gets paid big by commercial clients, I'm understandably his last priority.

Which still gives people plenty of time to enter a domain name suggestion for the contest. All the suggestions so far have been pretty good, but I'm looking for something very unique--entirely original. Which is the sole reason why I'm getting someone capable to do the work. For reference, my three favorites so far have been dancinglil.com, seemed-like-a-nice-girl.com and plaidpinata.com, although I'm not sure any of those is The One. But I've been thrilled with the participation, so keep sending them in (and I'll keep shooting them down :).

It's not that I agree, it's just that he said it at allSunday, April 28, 2002
11:47 p.m.
I tend to applaud people who unabashedly say what they think--especially if they are Hollywood-type people. You love him or you hate him (or if you've been living under a rock, you've never heard of him), but your hard-pressed to say PT Anderson isn't at least brave.

Anderson's reaction to Magnolia's critical reception reflects both the robust ego and the becoming modesty. He didn't resent Janet Maslin's review in the New York Times: "I kind of like that she says that the first two hours are good and then the moment comes when they start to sing and then frogs fall from the sky -- I don't mind that she doesn't like that, because I can see it being objectionable. I just like that she wrote it well. There have been wonderful reviews, through the-roof ones, and wonderfully mixed ones. And the people who say it's just a big piece of shit are people like Rex Reed and Joel Siegel, and they're just big, fat losers who go to movies, you know what I mean? You really want them to hate your movie, because if you ever get a review from them that's good, you have made a really bad movie. I'm saying that out loud and in capital letters - that's just a given for anyone who makes movies." Anderson is also not shy about other people's movies. Of David Fincher's Fight Club, he says, "I saw thirty minutes of it only because our trailer is playing in front of it. And I would love to go on railing about the movie, but I'm just going to pretend as if I haven't seen it. It's just unbearable. I wish David Fincher testicular cancer, for all of his jokes about it, I wish him testicular fucking cancer." (sort of) viakottke

* * *

DavidLynch.com has put on a fresh coat of paint in hopes of increasing its number of members. Now you can see what's inside before signing up and a schedule of dates has been posted announcing upcoming series releases. I spend most of my time in the chat rooms, especially if David is there (which he is nearly every night).

I was reluctant at first to promote DavidLynch.com because already the chat rooms have grown tremendously in size, especially when our guy Dave comes around. [An aside: I'm unsure if whether it is the dynamics of a chat room or that the genius behind Eraserhead is a little perv, but tonight DL and I flirted mercilessly (and playfully, I should add).He joked about a spanking. Hilarity ensued.]

But I'm attempting to diminsh my selfish ways, so if you must, go check it out for yourself and you too can try your coquetry on Mr. Lynch.
...while I stew jealously, and lament about the days when DL.com wasn't overcrowded and run-over by morons and halfwits, dolts, dunces, dullards and dumbbells.

Tentative: Pea Green CoatFriday, April 26, 2002
02:59 p.m.
Sometimes--not all the time--I get off on exposing myself in ways I might not usually. Right now it is sometimes, so I'm posting the first few paragraphs of the short story I've been working on (for months).
I recently returned to this piece after a short hiatus, and rekindled a forgotten fire.

When she entered I had my back to her. I was resetting my watch, which had the tendency to lapse out on me these days. She walked straight to the back and through the swinging double doors at the rear of the diner. Before she invaded my vision, I felt something brush my hand--fabric, clothing, a person. A coat. Then I watched a headfull of corkscrew curls stride past me in a pea green coat.

She quickly disappeared into the employee lounge. I checked my watch with the neon clock on the wall. 4:30. I looked down at my coffee mug to find it nearly empty for the fourth time since I came in about an hour ago. My club sandwich lay half-eaten before me in typical fashion--bread and cheese long since eaten while the turkey still remains. I like it here in this diner, among the heavy-lidded truck drivers and the gaggle of bored teenagers playing Risk in the largest booth. The kid with the most zit-scarred face and the loudest laugh is cutting long, thick lines out of the pile of sugar he's dumped onto the tabletop. For someone who's nervous a lot, like me, a comfortable place can be your sanctuary. There is a crackle in the air here, a soothing something that reminds me of home. I seldom come here, but when I do, I make definite plans to stop in more often.

I frequently eat at restaurants alone. It's pathetic, but I have this especially neurotic fear that people are watching me when I eat. This phenomena dates back to my grade school years when milk was served in plastic bags, but only cost ten cents. It took a nuanced and acquired skill to jab a straw into the jiggling baggie of beverage without dousing the friend to your right or your left. Jacob MacMahan remarked that when I drank it looked as though I was "sucking a tit," and because I was a small, delicate boy child, I cried. Since then I always worry that my mealmates are repulsed at the sight of me feeding myself. I know, it really is ridiculous, but eating is simply not attractive. It's just not. People look primal and gluttonous and, most of all, vulnerable whilst eating a meal. While I can, and enjoy, eating out in public, I prefer to do it alone so as not to obsess over whether my dinner guest is revolted by how I eat corn-on-the-cob.

And so, I'm a card-carrying member of that club everyone is aware of, but no one takes the time to consider: The Dine Alone Guy Club. We like our coffee black and we read when we eat.

I think I hiccupped when she strolled out of the kitchen wearing an apron, her hair pulled up wildly about her head. Fire-engine red curls cascaded over her face like party streamers, a couple of properly positioned pencils propping up the delicate hair arrangement. She pulled a purple tube of lipstick from the left pocket of her apron and slid on a wet shade of nude. She used a steak knife, held horizontally, from the utensil tray to apply the makeup, rather than the traditional mirror.

"But it's perfectly normal at night"Wednesday, April 24, 2002
12:09 a.m.
You know those songs that for a unique set of reasons make you bloated with glee? So overwhelmed with giddiness that your lips, despite themselves, curl ever upward and outward until you are beaming stupidly to yourself? It's the first time you've heard it and you can't believe you've only just now discovered this perfect diddy...and on the fucking radio, no less.

TodayTuesday, April 23, 2002
9:05 a.m.
You can thank a botched cable connection (still unfixed), a full week and my being rather uninspired for my lack of updates. However, my rut has run its course and I feel a shitstorm of inspiration coming on. Brace yourself (considering the Comcast people hurry the hell up and get my internet connection humming again).

And so, I had to post, secretly and quickly, from work in order to congratulate Keith of modestneeds.org on his successful interview with Al. He was featured on CNN too.